


The empty room

by Hximweh



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Character Study, He's lonely as fuck, I hate myself for this, I mean, Jesse suffers, Jesse's coping mechanism doesn't really work that well, Mentions of Murder, Translation, as usual, based on the episode "thirty-eight snub", he always does, lots of pain, lots of thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-08-23 04:17:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20236597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hximweh/pseuds/Hximweh
Summary: [Translation]You walk among people, among the persons who crowd the room, faceless, nameless. You inhale the smoke of a cigarette that someone, who knows who, offered you, you spit it out in a cough. You find yourself touching someone else's skin, and wondering what does that even means.You are a ghost in your own body.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a translation of a story of mine. English is not my first language. if you notice any mistakes, please let me know, so that i can fix them.  
I suggest to read this story listening to "antichrist" by the 1975.

You are the ghost haunting your own home.  
The hateful noise of your thoughts rises above the music coming from that huge stereo full of lights that has been turned on for hours, days, as loud as it could go.  
How ironic, to think that you had bought it hoping your mind would've drown in its sound.  
You walk among people, among the persons who crowd the room, faceless, nameless. You inhale the smoke of a cigarette that someone, who knows who, offered you, you spit it out in a cough. You find yourself touching someone else's skin, and wondering what does that even means.  
You are a ghost in your own body.

The room remains empty.  
Its bare walls fade, until they become almost unreal, and you can see them collapsing, fall down brick after brick, among dust and plaster. They're burying you while you're still alive, or perhaps you have already been dead for many years.  
You keep staring at the stereo's multicolored light, until you feel them whirl in your head, to the point that if you close your eyes right now they would be there, vivid as they could be, more real than what your eyes can see.  
The soft rustling of the vacuum makes you want to scream.  
Who know if the hiss it produces is comparable to that of a bullet piercing your head.  
Who knows if you will ever be able to clean the blood that stain your trembling lips.  
You slide on the ground, a pathetic mass of molecules abandoned among the garbage.  
Too high to sleep, too sober not to be tired, you grip your right wrist in the opposite hand, digging your nails in the ink-stained flesh.  
The music continues its fight against the voices in your head that, deafening, shout about your guilt.  
They never go away.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tips of her thin fingers touch your palm, she takes your hand, and with reluctant steps she guides you in front of the monument of dust, and plastic bags, and blackened spoons, memory of each one of your mistakes.  
Enough, she says, enough, you agree.  
This is the last time, she says, and you agree again.  
The sharp sensation of the needle piercing your skin removes your reasoning.  
You think, I wish I was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me - the 1975

Jane laughs, from the right seat of your car, and she softly whispers your name.

No one calls you as she does, in her own way of pronouncing that simple name as it actually means _something._

You kiss her, and you find yourselves laughing together, as if you were children.

You think, _I've never felt more alive._

The tips of her thin fingers touch your palm, she takes your hand, and with reluctant steps she guides you in front of the monument of dust, and plastic bags, and blackened spoons, memory of each one of your mistakes.

Enough, she says, enough, you agree.

This is the last time, she says, and you agree again.

The sharp sensation of the needle piercing your skin removes your reasoning.

You think, _I wish I was dead._

One. Two. Three.

Jane's mouth is open, its corners covered with yellowish vomit. Her eyes are wide open, they have been for who knows how many hours. They don't see anything, they don't even try to give the impression.

One. Two. Three.

You deliver cadenced beats on her chest, breathing at their rhythm.

One. Two.

You stop, not even giving the third beat. Jane's heart is still, as her eyes, as her mouth, and none of your badly executed maneuvers can change this condition.

You think, _enough._

You think,_ I wish I was dead._

You think,_ I've never been more alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. I did it. Although "The empty room" was born to be a single story, the temptation to turn it into something bigger prevailed on my initial projects. So, I've decided to turn it into a collection of short stories about Jesse. Some kind of character study, I guess.  
And yes, this is nothing but a way to manage my worries about the Breaking Bad's ending. Also, I've spent the last two days thinking about Jesse and almost crying. So, yeah.  
As usual, english is not my first language. If you find any mistakes, please tell me.  
E.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the mighty rio grande - this will destroy you

Your mother's gaze is fixed on the spoon that her trembling hands are barely holding. She remains silent, she always does, leaving you alone with your father's yelling.  
You are seventeen, your eyes are red, and you wish you could cry, but you're probably not even sober enough for this.  
It happened again, you don't know how, you don't know why, you remember nothing but curiosity, and adrenaline, and the ecstatic fury of doing something wrong _again, and again, and again._  
You keep your head down, shame blooming in your chest, and growing, growing, caressing your neck, leaving you gasping fr breath. No, maybe it isn't even shame.  
You just feel nothing.  
“Get out of here. I don't want to look at you.” your father says, laying his hands on his face.  
Your mother's silent scream follows you, as you walk through the doorway.

Perhaps this time it really is guilt, that grip that is tightening your throat.  
It is just like so many years ago. Your father screams, your brother -your brother, the same child that used to ask you to play with him and called you an hero when he was six- has his impassive gazed fixed on you. Your mother, vacant eyes, persists in her silence.Perhaps this time it really is guilt, that guilt you know nothing about but that you've chosen as your burden because, after all, it won't be the first, nor the last.  
Despite everything, you are so _good._  
You leave the house, as you already did when you still were a kid, and you barely understood what was going on.  
No sound follows you.  
You feel nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, i'm here again. Writing these stories is coming so easy to me: i don't think i've ever wrote something faster. Is it some kind of miracle caused by the unquantifiable love i feel for this character? Maybe.  
See you soon [hopefully, or maybe not, considering that i should probably calm down].  
E.  
P.S. i've been listening to the song i put on the beginning for three days straight. and like, listen to it. It deserves every of those eleven minutes.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the second episode of the fourth season. I love Jesse a lot, and that episode was incredibly painful to watch [i mean, it always is, he suffers every fucking time].  
i don't really know what to say.  
Goodbye.


End file.
